Do sit lamenting on the grassy green;
And with shrill cries, beating their whitest breasts,
Accuse the direful dart that Death sent out
To give the fatal stroke. The stars they blame;
That deaf or careless seem at their request.
The pleasant shade of stately groves they shun.
They leave their crystal springs, where they wont frame
Sweet bowers of myrtle twigs and laurel fair;
To sport themselves free from the scorching sun.
And now the hollow caves, where Horror dark